Bethany runs her fingers through her hair, capturing my attention again, then she leans down to pull a pencil from her bag. She pauses, unlocks the screen of her phone and checks it one last time, before she straightens in her seat and removes a test from the stack as it passes.
Even through the whispers of the classroom and Professor Murray’s voice droning on and on, I can hear her exhale, or at least, I think I can. Maybe I just imagine it as she settles in to take the test.
Like she can feel my eyes on her, she glances over her shoulder at me. Her gaze shifts away from mine just as quickly as it found me, and she practically turns her back to me. I should be self-conscious to be caught staring at her, but that was the first couple weeks we had class together. Now, it is what it is.
When my test finally reaches me, I’m grateful for the distraction.
Three
Nick
After my third and final class of the day, I arrive at my parents’ house, back in Saratoga Falls. This is how it is every Monday: school, family time and home cooking, then bartending for the night at Lick’s—a nice ease into a week of chaos. It’s a great balance, actually, one I’m used to, and I appreciate the routine and the guaranteed home-cooked meals. Between my mom and Sam, I get to eat like a king all week, and I barely have to crack open the cupboard.
The door’s unlocked and I step into the foyer. “Knock, knock!” The house smells like roast beef and my stomach approves with a rumble.
“In here!” my mom calls from the kitchen. “I’m just pulling dinner out of the oven.”
I head toward her, stomach gurgling again. “I’m frigging starving.”
Stepping into the newly remodeled kitchen, I inhale the savory scent of deliciousness and spit my nicotine gum into the garbage.
“Is the gum still helping, sweetie?”
“Meh.” I open the fridge and stare inside, looking for leftover spaghetti or pot pie and mashed potatoes, but it’s empty.
“Let me guess, you didn’t eat lunch again,” my mom says, tugging her oven mitts on.
I laugh at her naiveté. “Oh, I’ve eaten, Ma. You know me better than that. I’m a growing boy. Me like food. It’s the oral fixation thing, I guess. And the fact that I’m always hungry.”
“Well, I’m proud of you for quitting.”
“Thanks, Ma.” I glance around at the pristine granite countertops and the dish-less sink. “How is it that the kitchen is so clean, and yet, I know you’ve been cooking for hours?” I ask her as I lean in and kiss her cherub-smooth cheek.
“It’s called practice, sweetheart. If you ever cooked, you would know how to multitask.”
“Me not know this word, cook . . .”
She smiles despite herself and cracks open the oven door. Heat whooshes through her hair, sending the blonde-gray wisps dancing. “It’s my own fault for spoiling you,” she says under her breath. “I’ll take the blame.”
I chuckle and pour myself a glass of water to chug.
“How’s the apartment?” she asks, always worrying about me.
“Great. Quiet.” Five or so years ago, before I moved out, I didn’t think my parents’ house was very large. It has always just been my childhood home. Living in an apartment less than a quarter of the size, though, was a big eye-opener, but I love it. There are no parents to fuss about my old boxers and undershirts that are worn through.
“And the ladies?”
At first, I think she might be referring to Mac and Sam, but then I comprehend. “Ah, yes, the ladies. Marilyn and Monroe are doing just fine. I think they really like the new plant you got them for the tank.”
“It’s plastic,” she says.
“Yeah, and they’re fish and don’t know any better. Trust me, it’s a hit.”
“A point for Mom then,” she says, and I sneak a soft roll off the platter and tear off a bite. “Where’s Dad, still at work?” I scoot a hot plate closer to the stove for the roast pan as she pulls it out. My mouth starts to water. “That looks deadly delicious, Ma.”
“Thank you. I hope it’s as edible as it looks. I’ve never been able to pick out a decent roast to save my life. Too much fat, not enough fat. Too dry, too small . . .” She lets out a frazzled breath. “And I’m not sure where your father is. Work sounds about right. Now, take the carafe of water to the table, would you?”
I nod, grabbing the sweating pitcher from the counter in one hand, a stack of napkins and the silverware resting beside it with the other. My weekly contribution to family dinner: setting the dinner table. I’m great at it. I don’t know what my parents would do without me.
“Oh! I made iced tea for you, sweetheart. It’s in the refrigerator door.”
“You’re spoiling him again,” my dad says from the hallway, and I hear the front door shut and keys hit the entry table. I set my armload back on the counter and meet him in the doorway.
“Hey, Pop,” I say, wrapping my arms around him with a quick hug.
“Hey, Nicky.” He’s got a bouquet of flowers in his hand, another family dinner tradition.
“How’s the Wyman property coming along?” I ask and take a step back, strangely comforted to see him. “Looks like it’s still keeping you busy.” So busy, in fact, I feel like family dinners are the only time I see him anymore at all and he’s barely at half of them.
We walk into the kitchen.
“It’s, uh, good. It’s coming along just fine. You know Judd, he’s a demanding son of a bitch, as usual.”
“Language,” my mom says under her breath.
“For you,” my dad says, and hands her the flowers.
“They’re beautiful.” She takes them with a tight smile and nods to the dining room. “Put them in the vase, would you?” Then, she glances over her shoulder at me. “You were setting the table,” she reminds me.
“Oh, shit. Sorry, Ma.” I can feel her piercing glare without even looking at her, and I can’t help but laugh. “Language, I know. Sorry.”
The usual cream cloth covers the table, and the vase for the lilies is set off to the side, on the buffet behind it. My mom and dad hustle around, getting the remaining items on the table and setting out the food. I put the extra napkins in the center of the table as my mom pulls out her chair to sit. “All right. Dig in.”
My dad takes his place at the head of the table. “You can change out of your suit, Pop,” I tell him and fill my mom’s glass with water. “We can wait.”
“Nah,” he says, hanging his jacket on the back of the chair. “I’m fine.” He smiles. “Starving, actually. Your mother made this beautiful meal. Let’s eat.”
I fill his glass with water, then pour some iced tea for myself and sit down. “Thanks for the tea, Ma.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” She unfolds her napkin.
My dad cuts into the roast. “Extra done, just the way you like it,” he says and places the end piece on my mom’s plate.
“Thank you.” She doesn’t even bother to look at him, ravenously eying the meat.
We plate the rest of our food in silence, the sound of clanking dishes and the ticking wall clock are all that fills the lack of conversation. I plop some potatoes and a heap of salad onto my plate.
“Oh!” My mom starts. “Did the property manager get your faucet fixed in the kitchen yet, sweetie?”
“I told you I’d fix it, Ma—”
“Nick, that’s their job.”
I shrug and take a monster bite of my roast. After a quick chew, I explain it simply. “They take forever. It’s just easier if I fix it myself.”
“Hutch, they should at least reimburse him for the cost, shouldn’t they?”
He looks up from his plate, fork and knife in hand, and glances between us. “Yes, they should, but he’s a grown man, Leslie. He can take care of it himself.”
She glowers at him.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’ve been talking to Eddy, the manager. They’ll reimburse me. I had them swear in blood.”
�
�Don’t be foul, Nicholas.” She sighs, and I smile. These are the moments I miss most, when I still feel like my old self—a kid with only his parents’ reprimands and cross looks to worry about.
“It’s just,” she continues, “you have so much else going on with work and school and the ranch . . . You don’t need to take on anything else, sweetheart. You’re too nice and people take advantage of that.”
“I told you, it’s already worked out.” I inhale a few bites of potatoes. “I’m twenty-five, I don’t need you worrying about the small stuff, Ma, especially when I can take care of it.”
“Whatever you say.” She cuts into her meat like it’s rubber, and I know she’s getting riled up.
“Mac sends her love,” I tell her, trying to change the subject.
My mom’s face brightens and she looks at me. “Oh, how is she? I’ve been thinking about her all alone in her new place. Does she need anything? I’m going to make a Costco run this week. Let me know what I can get her, would you?”
“Why are you making a Costco run, Leslie?” my dad asks. I almost forgot he was at the table.
“Because,” she says flatly. “There are things I need.”
“But, it’s just you and dad. I don’t need anything. And Mac doesn’t expect you to buy stuff for her. In fact, I’ll probably get a right-hook if I bring her anymore house warming gifts from you.”
With a dab of her napkin, my mom straightens and gives me the look. “I know she doesn’t need or want anything, silly. At least, she’s too polite to ever ask. I just—I worry about her with Katherine back in her life, is all.” She shakes her head as if she’s still trying to wrap her mind around it. “Mac probably doesn’t know what to do with herself half the time. Familiarity is important and we’re familiar. I’d like to help, if we can.”
“You’re meddling again,” my father tells her.
She scowls at him. “Fine. I just wanted to help.” The air in the room feels heavy as we continue eating in silence. I’m not sure when our family dinners became such a stressful meal, but it feels off, for some reason. It feels wrong.
“Your Aunt Alison says the ranch is doing really well,” my mom finally says. “That new girl they hired over the holidays, Sommer, is working out fine, I take it?” She looks at my dad. “I’m not meddling, I’m just asking,” she clarifies, but my dad ignores her.
“Uh, yeah. She’s great.” I glance between them, uncertain if my dad is even listening as he stares down at his plate. “Sommer’s only part time,” I continue reluctantly. “But, she helps Sam out with the menial, daily tasks so that Sam can focus on the clients and the projects, with me.”
“Yeah, that’s what Alison was saying.”
After a gulp of iced tea, I fork another cut of beef onto my plate. “The barn remodel is almost finished,” I add, looking at my dad.
Since high school, my dad has pressed me to go into business with him to uphold the family name and run the company when he’s gone. Even though I’d been torn between architecture and baseball, I wanted to make him happy and proud. A part of me wanted to work with him as much as he’d wanted to work with me. At least, that’s how it was at first.
It started off as avoidance. My dad didn’t seem interested in talking to me about architecture anymore, and he didn’t ask me about my classes either. Then, he began to express worry about what his associates might think and questioned the ethics and lack of professionalism in giving his son a handout. But I was willing to start at the bottom and work my way up to the top. That had always been the plan, after all. By the beginning of my final school year, everything was muddled. My plan—our plan—had completely changed, and my final school project was no longer my initiation into the firm.
It felt like I was being handled more than leveled with. My dad was the reason I was getting this degree to begin with, and changing up the plan on me so late in the game was a slap in the face. I’m not even sure what the plan is now.
He pours dressing into his bowl and mixes his salad around. “I’m glad the remodel is coming along nicely,” he says, oblivious. “Did you use the contacts I gave you for the materials? Fred’s a hard-ass in every sense of the word, but that’s the reason he’s the best.”
“I contacted him for the joists, but I didn’t use him. He was too expensive.”
“No?” My dad’s brown eyes finally shift to mine. He’s silently judging me for going with someone else, or maybe he’s wondering if I didn’t go with Fred out of spite.
I shake my head. “I have contacts of my own. That’s what five-plus years of design projects and externships gets you.”
“Well then,” he says, “I guess it’s a good thing you’re doing your own thing. I would’ve used Fred.” It’s a dig, a slight one, but enough to piss me off. I’m in the program because he wanted me to be and now he’s acting like he didn’t blow me off and leave me hanging to “do it on my own”. I don’t want to sound like a spoiled kid who didn’t get his way, so I let it go.
“I know you don’t see it now, Nick,” my dad continues, “but this is good for you. I think the barn rehab you’re doing for Sam is a great way to start your career, and it’s one hundred percent on your own. You can be proud of what you’re doing, knowing no one handed you anything.”
“I’m not rehabbing a barn into an office for me, dad. It’s Sam’s project, I’m just executing it. It would be the same if I were working for you, only it would be an actual architecture firm to put on my resume. How do you not see the difference? This was supposed to be our thing.”
He drops his fork, the sound of it clanking through the dining room.
My mom clears her throat and takes a sip of water from her glass. Her kind, amber eyes meet mine, conveying something I can’t quite put my finger on in her silence.
My dad wipes his mouth with his napkin. “What do you want me to do, Nick? Things changed. This is real life, son, and a handout won’t get you anywhere.”
“I’m not asking for a handout,” I grind out. “But it would be nice if you’d acknowledge that the past seven years of schooling—to be an accredited architect to work for your firm—was all for nothing.”
“I didn’t say you’d never work with me, Nick.”
“All right, you two,” my mom simpers. She offers me the bowl of roasted vegetables. “I hope you don’t think you’ve gotten out of eating your veggies. Plate up.” She nods to both me and my dad, and I grumble inwardly.
She nudges the bowl toward my dad. “Hutch—”
“I’ve got some work to do at the office,” he says, tossing his napkin onto his plate. “I need to get back.”
I gape at my mom. “What the hell?”
She shuts her eyes and rubs her temple.
Without another word, he grabs his wallet and keys from the entry table and shuts the door behind him.
I’m surprised my mom’s expression is so blasé as she leans back in her chair.
“What the hell just happened?”
“He’s had a rough couple weeks,” she says, though it’s half-hearted and she sounds exhausted. “Time for wine, yes?”
Four
Nick
Settling into my evening shift, I turn the classic rock up on the jukebox and survey the mess Brady left for me to deal with. I’m about to put a clean rack of pint glasses away in preparation for the after-work craze, when the door swings open and a familiar face comes into view.
“Oh boy, here comes trouble,” I mutter, just loud enough so Bobby can hear me.
“You know it,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. By the looks of it, Mac finally convinced him to fix his broken tooth, so other than a faded scar above his right eyebrow and the hidden tattoos beneath his work clothes, Bobby almost looks like a clean shaven, blue-eyed pretty boy.
“What, no hockey practice today?” I ask, grabbing a clean pint glass.
Bobby shakes his head. “It’s off-season, which means I’m stuck with these jokers.” He nods to his sister and the rest of o
ur friends trickling in behind him.
Mac bats playfully at Colton’s arm as the door shuts behind them, and when her eyes meet mine, I wink. “Sup, girl?”
“Hi, sweetness,” she says, flashing me her megawatt smile. Her high heels clack against the linoleum floor. “Thank God for you,” she says and leans over the bar to give me a peck on the cheek. As usual, she’s in her signature look: bright, curve hugging designer attire you’re more likely to see on a fancy lawyer, than an office manager at a mechanic shop. “These guys are driving me crazier than usual today.”
I raise an eyebrow and glance between them as everyone takes a seat at the bar. Reilly and Colton sit at the end, forming an L to face us.
“We’re driving you crazy?” Reilly asks with an incredulous smile. “Us? These guys right here?” Mr. All-American motions between the three of them. It’s nice to see he’s officially claimed his spot back in the group after being gone for four years, deployed overseas. “You, my friend, are the dream crusher,” he tells her.
Mac scoffs. “I’m just trying to save Bobby money,” she says, exasperated, and looks at her brother as she peels off her blazer.
“Babe, so what if he wants to super-charge the Mustang,” Colton says. “What’s the big deal?”
I pour the gang their usual drinks, Black IPA for the guys and a cider for Mac, since Savannah introduced it to her a few months back.
“The big deal,” Mac says easily, “is everything that comes with it. Bigger fuel pump and injectors—more money and distractions.” She looks pleadingly at Bobby. “I thought you were supposed to be focusing on the NHL this year, not cars. God knows you’ve had plenty of time to play with hoses and fan belts your entire life. Hockey is what you’ve been working towards. It’s finally your chance to take the next step. Why add all of this to your plate?”
“Because it’s fun.” Reilly smirks, but Mac isn’t amused, and I get the impression her frown isn’t about souped-up hot rods, but something else entirely.
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 71
